


He Knows

by PenguinofProse



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellamy makes a fuss, Clarke gets sick, Episode: s04e08 God Complex, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightblood tests, Sick Clarke, caring bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29825592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: Written for 100 fics for BLM. In which Clarke's nightblood is tested in the lab and Bellamy cares for her when she is sick afterwards.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 40
Kudos: 166
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	He Knows

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to another fic written for 100 fics for BLM! I hope this is what you were wishing for, prompter. Huge thanks to Zou for betaing it. We're diverging from canon in S4 where Emori is lined up as the next nightblood test subject.
> 
> Content note: descriptions of radiation sickness as portrayed in the show including vomiting. Clarke's canon-compliant low self worth and self-sacrificing tendencies.

**Support good causes and prompt fics at<https://t100fic-for-blm.carrd.co/>**

Clarke thinks she has it all figured out. A robust plan is what she needs to pull this off, and she figures this plan is as robust as she has time to form.

She’s got Miller on her side - he’s too loyal to ask questions. She knows Raven will back her up as well, that oddly cold core of steel at work, and Roan will do what’s best for his people. She’s asked Jackson to support her, too, and wasn’t surprised when he said yes. She’s learnt since he came to Earth that he has a tougher stomach than she used to give him credit for, back on the Ark.

Why does she need this backup? She plans to test the nightblood on herself.

She starts by having her own mother locked in her room, Roan standing guard on the door. It’s tough, but it’s what needs to be done. She cannot risk her mother’s emotions getting the better of her and interfering with the plan.

The next step is to give herself the nightblood injection. Jackson even offers to help, but she can handle a little needle by herself. She’s faced worse on the ground.

Then comes the waiting. That’s the hardest part. Sitting in the lab, watching the clock, trying not to stare too hard at the glorified oven she’s about to willingly enter.

“Having second thoughts?” Miller asks gently.

She turns to him, startled. “No. Not that. Not going to change my mind. Just - I wish it didn’t have to be like this at all.”

He nods, face drawn in tense lines. “Thanks, Clarke. Thanks for doing this. That sounds stupid, huh? But no one ever seems to thank you.”

She laughs, a hollow sound. He’s right. It’s a thankless task, bearing the weight of the human race on her shoulders. And here, in this lonely lab, she doesn’t even have Bellamy to share the load.

No. She can’t think about him right now. He’d be so disappointed, so angry, if he knew she was about to give herself up after everything he’s done to keep her alive.

“It’ll work.” Miller says now - more bracing than truly confident. “I believe in Jacks and in your mum.”

_Jacks_. That’s nice. At least someone’s happy, she thinks in a distant kind of way. It’s as if the world is already fading out around her, as if she’s already accepted her fate. She might not come out of that oven alive, and that’s OK. She’s stared death in the face before now without flinching, hasn’t she? At least this time she’s putting herself in danger for the best of causes. And if she does die, it will be quite peaceful, she hopes. Jackson plans to keep her sedated throughout.

“I think we’re ready.” Jackson says now, speaking quietly as if trying not to startle her.

Clarke nods. _We’re ready_. Ready to conduct the experiment. Ready for the test subject to face her fate.

She starts walking towards the gurney Jackson has prepared for her to lie on and be sedated. Raven darts forward as best she can, grabs Clarke into a quick hug. She wasn’t expecting that, doesn’t quite manage to hug her back before she’s gone again. That’s how it feels, to be disconnecting from life already, perhaps. Clarke lies herself on the gurney, winces as a needle pricks at her skin.

“I’m going to start sedating you now, Clarke. Is that OK?”

“Yes.”

“You understand what’s happening? You want to go through with it?”

Her eyes flicker, one last time, towards the glittering glass of that radiation chamber. “Yes. I’m ready.”

Jackson nods, heavy, face sad. He starts with the sedative, and Clarke feels it hit her bloodstream. She feels even more distant, now, her connection with life faltering fast.

Just two things hold her tied here. Two thoughts, two people. Two _problems_.

“Tell my mum I’m sorry.” She whispers, a slurred rush.

“Of course. Yes. If it comes to that.” Jackson nods, reaching out to squeeze her hand.

“And - and Bellamy.” She manages to shape his name, but it’s a struggle.

“Yes? You’ve got a message for him?” Jackson prompts.

She tries to nod, but she can’t. She tries to speak, but it’s a struggle. She tries to blink, but even that is almost beyond her now.

“He knows.” She manages simply, because he _does_ know, she’s pretty sure.

She may be losing touch with reality, but she’s clinging onto that until the bitter end.

…….

Bellamy thinks nothing of it, when he finds himself summoned to Kane’s office. That happens quite often. He strolls in there, resigned to a long day on some mission or other, ready to hear his orders.

Then he hears what has happened.

“Clarke’s done _what_?”

“She’s had them test the nightblood on her.” Kane repeats softly. “She’s alive, but with acute radiation sickness.”

Bellamy snorts without humour. _Obviously_ she has acute radiation sickness. What the hell did she think was going to happen if she had herself put in a radiation chamber?

“I’m going to see her.” He declares, already turning back to the door he just walked in through.

“Bellamy, wait a minute -”

“No, Kane. With all due respect, I’m leaving. If she’s got radiation sickness she might not have long left. I can’t hang around and wait for your permission.”

“Bellamy.” Kane says, tone commanding, calling him to a halt. “Just two minutes of your time. Then you can make your choice.”

Bellamy considers that for a second. He does respect Kane, and the man sounds desperate to get him to listen. He nods, tight, spins on the spot to listen to whatever he has to say.

If he misses Clarke’s last breath by two minutes - if he arrives two minutes late to that island - he’s never going to forgive himself for spending these two minutes here, now.

Kane nods approvingly and gets on with saying his piece. “Thank you, Bellamy. It sounds like she’s not that sick. She didn’t react as badly as the first test subject. It sounds more like the radiation sickness Luna had when she was in Arkadia with us, and Luna is well now.”

Bellamy nods. He still feels distinctly worried, but that is good news. Maybe she’s not actually at death’s door.

Or maybe Kane is just being optimistic.

“Who told you all this?” Bellamy asks.

“Jackson. He gave me a full report - you can see it if you like, but I guess the numbers will mean as little to you as they do for me. She’s _stable_ \- that’s the word he kept using. Sick but stable.”

Bellamy gives another nod. He can cope with that. Sick but stable means he doesn’t need to be at her side to say goodbye. He needs to be at her side to hold her hand while she heals, instead.

“He told me something else. Said she had a message for you if it all went wrong. Just to tell you this - _he knows_.”

Bellamy snorts, shakes his head tiredly. _He knows_? What a load of crap. He doesn’t _know_ , because she never wants to talk about it. He _hopes_ , sure, but he doesn’t _know_.

“I’m going to see her.” He says firmly. “I’m taking a rover.”

Kane doesn’t even try to argue. “I know. Just - stay safe out there. Drive carefully. You’ll be no good to her if you have an accident on the way.”

Bellamy nods. He can do that. He can take care, for Clarke.

He’s pleased Kane didn’t argue with him going. He simply has to go see her. It’s partly because he’s hopelessly in love with her and she’s very sick, of course it is. But it’s more complicated than that, too. It’s because he left her, that day on the shore, and came home to be with his sister instead - his sister who meanwhile ran off and left him. All his life his sister has been his priority, and in his mind that is linked to Clarke being so unwell, now. If he’d stayed with her, this might not have happened. Maybe it’s time to make Clarke the priority in his life, instead of an ungrateful Octavia.

Maybe making Clarke the priority actually means making _himself_ the priority. He’s been starting to wonder that, these last few months. For all his tired jokes about keeping her alive, he wouldn’t have it any other way - not just because he’s basically programmed to take care of people, after his youth spent raising Octavia, but because he wants to keep Clarke alive in particular. When she’s alive, he feels more alive too. She brings out the best of him, makes him feel valuable and whole and good.

So she’s not allowed to die on some heartless island for the sake of saving the human race. He simply won’t permit it. He’s going to drive over there and order her to get better.

And for the first time in all the months they have worked together, she is actually going to follow his orders to the letter.

…….

Clarke wakes up slowly.

At least, she supposes this is waking up. Her skin feels like it’s on fire. Maybe she’s not waking up. Maybe she’s dead and falling through the flames of hell instead.

“You’re doing great, Clarke.”

Yes. Definitely waking up. That’s Jackson’s voice, and there’s no way Jackson is going to hell.

“I’m sorry, we don’t have enough sedative to keep you under any longer. I’m so sorry.”

Why is he sorry? That doesn’t sound like it’s his fault. Sedative? So no more sleep? Only fire from here on out?

Huh. Maybe that’s what she deserves.

“Bellamy should be here any moment. Emori’s gone to fetch him.”

Bellamy? Why would Bellamy be here? Bellamy wasn’t here when she went to sleep.

Maybe this is hell after all. Maybe that’s what hell is like - endless recycling of real life, only a little bit happier. How real life could have been.

That sounds like the most cruel kind of torture, she thinks.

…….

Clarke is still out of it when Bellamy arrives. 

He thinks that’s a good thing. Probably. Mainly. The way Jackson explains it to him is that Clarke’s chances of recovery look good, and that she’s just been passed out in the time he was driving and on the boat. So Bellamy figures that’s maybe not so awful, because at least it means he’ll be here when she wakes up.

He figures she’d like that, what with that cryptic _he knows_ and all.

“Any idea when she might wake up?” He asks Jackson, because asking Jackson questions is easier than looking at Clarke’s blistered body, somehow. It’s much easier just to hover here by the door and pretend that’s only some unfortunate stranger in the bed.

“Any time now.” Jackson answers at once. “She’s not sedated any more and her vitals are good. She might even be able to hear us and be aware of her surroundings before she can wake up fully and communicate.”

Oh. _Oh_. She might be able to hear him, even now? She might be able to sense his presence if he is by her side?

Well, then. In that case, he will fight past his discomfort, face up to the fact that this bloodied body belongs to Clarke.

He walks towards her, slow but steady. He reaches out a hand on instinct, then draws it sharply back again. He probably shouldn’t touch her, not while her skin is a mess of oozing burns.

“Clarke. Hey. I don’t know if you can hear me but if you can - I guess I’m here now.” 

He takes a chair, perches right on the very edge of the seat. It would feel wrong, somehow, to relax back into it while Clarke is lying here sick.

“I had to come here when I heard what you’d done. I’m meant to keep you alive, right? So here I am, telling you to stop making it so damn difficult.”

She’d give him a tight little laugh for that, if she were awake. Or at the very least a slight quirking of her mouth - he knows her well enough to predict things like that, he supposes.

_He knows_.

He turns, furtive, to glance at the open door. No sign of Jackson. Has the doctor retreated to give them a moment of privacy, perhaps? Or is he loitering just around the corner in case Clarke requires medical attention?

Whatever. It’s the best chance Bellamy’s going to get. He’s wasted too many moments before now to let this one slip through his fingers.

“ _I know_ , huh?” He asks Clarke with a sad smile. “I’m not sure. Maybe I do. Maybe I’m just kidding myself and you were trying to tell me to take care of the rest of the hundred who are left or something. But if - if you were saying what I hope you were saying, you’d better wake up. Because we’re not leaving it here, Clarke. _He knows_ is not good enough. I want to hear you say it to my face.”

He swallows, peeps one more cautious look towards the door.

“I want to say it back to you.”

…….

Clarke is trying to wake up. _Obviously_ she is. She can hear Bellamy’s voice, saying something about how he feels towards her. That’s a conversation she’d like to be conscious for, thank you very much. She’s more or less convinced that this is real life not hell, now. The sheets feel too real against her sore skin, and Bellamy’s voice sounds deep and brittle just like she is used to hearing when he’s struggling with emotion.

But she can’t quite do it. She can’t quite make it back to him. She’s too weak to get her eyes open, too weak to make the slightest sound or movement.

Something is still sucking her under. It’s like she’s drowning in her own bloody blisters, her throat thick with the taste of death.

She’s going to live. She has to live. She needs to save the human race, needs to thank Jackson for making the toughest choice of his young life, needs to get back to Arkadia and start distributing nightblood serum.

But the thing she really wants to wake up for? She needs to tell Bellamy what he already knows.

…….

Bellamy is almost surprised when Clarke wakes up. He’s been sitting here a good couple of hours, now, and he was beginning to think she was never going to stir. He’s been watching her, sometimes talking to her, sometimes just silent.

But now, her eyes are wide open - still vivid blue, and staring right at him. She looks more alert than he might have expected under the circumstances, he thinks.

“How are you feeling?” He asks her right away, leaning forward in his chair. He just needs to be close to her, right now.

“Hurts.” She mumbles. It’s difficult to read her expression while her face is so littered with burns, but he can at least tell that she’s wincing in pain.

“I know. I know it hurts, I’m sorry.” He babbles uselessly. “You want me to go get Jackson?”

The smallest nod. “Have to tell him it worked.” She mutters. “Have to tell him to make more.”

Bellamy frowns at her sternly. “He already figured that out. He figured it out because _you’re still breathing_ , and he’s already making more. I was offering to get him so he can get you some painkillers.”

She shakes her head. “No more.”

“Clarke -”

“No.”

Well, then. This is something of a stalemate. When she says _no more,_ does she mean she doesn’t _want_ more, or that there are no more to be found? He’s familiar with the concept of medicine rationing, of course. But he’s not going to sit here and watch Clarke hurt if there’s something he can do about it.

But he really doesn’t want to leave her, while she’s looking up at him like that.

Jackson has to stop by and check on her sooner or later. Bellamy can ask about some meds for Clarke then, or else go look for him when she’s next asleep. He hopes that’s the right call to make. Everything in him is screaming at him to fix this _now_ , to ease her pain. But he doesn’t want to go against her express wishes - or leave her side.

“You’re ridiculous.” He informs her mildly. “This idea was totally _insane_. I can’t believe you didn’t even tell me you were considering it. I can’t believe you would put yourself in danger like this.”

That’s not quite right though, is it? He doesn’t _want_ to believe it, but he _can_ believe it. And he has a feeling that _totally insane_ might be spot on. That maybe Clarke’s head isn’t doing so well, maybe her mind is not functioning on all cylinders. That would explain her current lack of self-worth and obsession with self-sacrifice, he thinks. That would explain why she couldn’t write her name on the list of survivors, why she decided to put herself in that oven for the good of the human race.

Huh. He kind of knows how she feels. He’s been feeling about ready to run headfirst into the death wave, lately. It’s only really Clarke who’s keeping him steady and safe - that’s why he’s so frantic at the thought of losing her.

“‘M sorry.” She mumbles, weak and pathetic.

It breaks his heart a little more. His heart that has already been shattered a hundred times over by this horrific planet - and the hard life on the Ark that came before. But the sight of Clarke looking up at him, so lost and apologetic and unsure, has tears pooling in his own eyes.

“It’s OK. Try to get some more rest. Jackson says you’re going to be OK.”

Another feeble nod. Her hand twitches on the blankets, too, and he thinks that’s rather interesting. Is she trying to move, to reach out maybe?

He tests that theory. He edges his hand towards the bed, sees her fingers twitch again.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He murmurs, even as he reaches for her hand.

“You won’t.” She says, as if that’s just obvious. As if even in the depths of radiation sickness, one thing is clear in her mind - that he could never hurt her.

He nods, smiles a little. He lays his hand next to hers on the blanket, tips of their little fingers just touching - comforting but not painful, he hopes.

She’s not happy with that. Of course she isn’t - she’s Clarke Griffin. She doesn’t do things by halves. She twitches her hand once again, then manages to lift it effortfully and lay it over the top of his, clasping his knuckles with surprising strength.

He’s flattered more than anything. That was hard for her, but now she’s found the strength to cling to him like she’ll never let go. That’s encouraging, he thinks - both for her state of health and for what she meant with that cryptic _he knows_.

“Go back to sleep, Clarke. I’ll still be here when you wake up again.”

She nods, eyes already drifting closed.

…….

Clarke is woken up by a pressing need to vomit.

She’s surprised by that. She didn’t think there would be anything left in her stomach to throw up, by this point.

Turns out she was right. She realises that about the time she finds herself spewing up black blood and bile all over Bellamy’s lap. She’s too ill to have better aim, unfortunately. He’s sitting right there next to her bed, and so it is that he gets a lapful of sick.

A lapful of the most disgusting sick she’s ever seen in her life - and she used to be a medical apprentice.

“Sorry.” She gasps, when the first wave is past. “Sorry. I -”

“Is there more?” He asks, no nonsense and totally matter of fact.

She nods weakly, already feeling it rising.

He grabs a bucket from his other side, holds it hugged between his knees while he reaches out to ease her into a more fully sitting position. He’s just in time - another wave hits her, splashing into the bucket. 

It’s disgusting. She’s never felt so thoroughly _gross_ in her life. Some of her sores are bleeding from the sudden movement, too, as if throwing up all over the best friend she’s in love with wasn’t enough of a mess.

Bellamy, meanwhile, is doing a good impression of a guy totally unfazed. He’s rubbing her back ever so gently without disturbing her sores, whispering quiet words of reassurance as he goes.

“You’re OK. Vomiting is normal, or so Jackson says. That’s why he left us the bucket. Didn’t realise you’d be throwing up so suddenly though.” He says, just the merest hint of a tease.

She smiles weakly. “Sorry.”

“It’s OK. You done now?”

“I think so.”

“Great.”

With that, he helps her lie back down on the bed. He sets the used bucket carefully on the floor, looks around the room with a frown.

And then he simply stands up and takes his trousers straight off.

Clarke blinks and tears her eyes away - but not before she’s got sight of a pair of well-muscled thighs and Bellamy’s boxers clinging too tightly around his groin. These are really not the circumstances she imagined, all those times she dreamed of him undressing for her. It couldn’t be more different, in fact.

“It’s nothing personal.” He teases as he strips. “I just don’t want to spend a second longer with puke in my lap. What should I do with these? Is there a laundry room in this place?”

“Not sure.”

She risks turning back to look at him. It seems rude to hold a conversation while she’s staring at the far wall. But it seems rude, too, to hold a conversation while he’s looking all beautiful and half-dressed, and while she’s disgusting and probably smells like vomit.

He sets his soiled trousers on the floor with a shrug, then pulls off his shirt as well, taking care not to touch the dirty hem. Clarke’s beginning to wish the floor would rise up and swallow her, in all honesty. It seems simply unfair, in this moment, how great the contrast is between them - him so stunningly attractive, and her positively repulsive.

“I’ll go look in a minute. Let’s get you cleaned up first.” He says, soft, stepping up to her bedside once more. 

She feels her face flush, but is comforted that he probably can’t see her embarrassment while her skin is such a mess.

He helps her to raise her head off the pillow, hands her an open bottle of water.

“Here. Rinse your mouth. Hang on - I can reach the bucket.”

She would laugh, if the situation weren’t so dire. If she hadn’t just vomited over the love of her life, and if she didn’t have a mouth full of gross water at this moment. But he looks such a sight, limbs outstretched, as he tries to help her stay sitting up and reach for the bucket all at once.

He manages it. He holds the bucket for her, helps her take water and rinse a couple of times. She’s more embarrassed than ever, now. This is just making her look pathetic, she’s pretty sure - weak and needy and a _burden_. 

She doesn’t want to be a burden to Bellamy. After all these years he’s spent tied down by his sister, she’d love for him to be able to fly free.

At last, she’s done. He sets the bucket down, takes the water away. But he doesn’t help her lie back on the pillow, not quite yet. He’s still crouching there, dressed only in his boxers, his arm curled around her shoulders. She can feel the strength of his firm muscles, can feel the warmth of him, soothing through the thin fabric of her gown. Even with the healing blisters across her back, it’s nice to be held.

“You doing OK?” He asks, soft, looking her right in the eyes.

She laughs, and it hurts her sore throat. “Been better. I’m so sorry about all this.”

“Hey, it’s OK. You’re alright. Let’s lie you down and I’ll wash your face.”

She gulps. He’ll wash her _face_? Why? Does she look that gross, from all the throwing up?

“You don’t have to.” She croaks, as he eases her head back onto the pillow.

“I want to. Just let me fuss, OK? You scared me, and I need to feel like I’m doing something to help.” He admits, refusing to meet her eyes.

“You always help.” She says simply, because that is the honest truth.

He bats that away with a wave of his hand. He reaches for a cloth, makes it damp from that water bottle. And the next thing she knows, he’s crouching over her, a sad smile playing about his lips, and wiping gently at her face.

It’s… _unexpected._ That’s what she’s going for. When she decided to take the experimental nightblood and put herself in that radiation chamber, she did not expect to find herself here, with Bellamy Blake fussing at her bedside and wiping her damn face.

Bellamy, however, seems to have decided to pretend that everything’s normal. His smile is less sad and more _determined_ , now, as he wipes the cloth carefully around her mouth.

“You good? Throwing up sucks, huh? Worst taste in the world.” He offers, lighter than she’s heard him speak since she woke up and found him here.

“Yeah. That was a bad one. Sorry about your clothes.”

“It’s alright. I can get new clothes. I can’t get a new Clarke.” He says, grinning tentatively.

She smiles back at him, although it hurts her face to move. He seems to have given up with the cloth, now, and instead is simply resting a hand, feather-light, against her cheek.

She gathers her courage and tries for a joke. A risky joke, in some ways - but not totally over the line, she thinks, seeing as he has rushed to her bedside and decided to play nurse. That suggests she’s not the only one feeling some feelings, here, she thinks.

“I can think of better reasons for you to strip.” She tries, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

He laughs, strokes her cheek slightly with a thumb. Then he seems to realise what he’s doing, remember her injuries or the situation, as he draws his hand back sharply.

“Me too. It’s good to see you smiling again, Princess.” He sighs, moves away from the bed. She misses him right away. “I’m going to go find something to wear. Don’t go anywhere.” He warns her, mock stern.

She won’t go anywhere. She’s too sick to move far, she’s pretty sure. But despite being a woman normally inclined to action, she’s quite content to lie still, in this moment. She has a most interesting puzzle to work on while she’s resting here.

_Princess_. He just called her _Princess_. He very rarely calls her that, recently - the last time she can remember was just after the fall of ALIE.

Maybe that’s a pattern, she wonders. Maybe that’s a nickname that only slips out these days when she’s given him a fright, when he’s scared of losing her, relieved that he has managed to keep her alive. When worry has lowered his guard and he doesn’t stop himself from being so openly affectionate with her through caution or embarrassment or politeness.

He’s a silly man. She loves him, but it’s the truth. Maybe she ought to find a moment to tell him he can call her that whenever the hell he wants.

…….

Bellamy supposes that wearing clothes is probably the right thing to do. He got the distinct impression that Clarke didn’t mind him being nearly naked, actually, but it still doesn’t feel proper to wander around her sickroom without clothes on. He wouldn’t want to make Jackson uncomfortable, for example. That would be poor repayment for the way the man has taken care of Clarke in between preparing the nightblood serum that will save the human race.

He’s just wandering down the hallway, a bundle of disgusting clothes in his hand, when Miller rounds the corner in front of him.

“Hey Bellamy! Good to see you.” Miller steps forward and engulfs him in a hearty hug.

Bellamy tries to hug him back. It’s difficult, because he’s still holding those gross clothes. After a few firm slaps on the back, he pulls away.

“Sorry about this.” He says, gesturing to his bare body and soiled clothes.

Miller only laughs. “I’m not complaining. Clarke’s a lucky woman. What’s going on?”

“She threw up on me. It was really romantic.” He deadpans. He knows Miller will appreciate that.

Sure enough, more laughter. Bellamy has missed the guy who has become his best friend on Earth - or at least, his best friend who isn’t Clarke.

“That’s some bad luck. Is she doing better? Awake and throwing up is better than passed out, right?”

“Yeah. She’s awake and talking a little.”

“Great. Look, let me take those clothes. You can borrow something of mine to wear - third door on the left.” Miller says, pointing down the hall.

“Thanks. I owe you.” Bellamy says easily. “What about Clarke? Will Jackson want to check on her if she’s throwing up?”

“Probably. And he said he was wondering about letting Abby out now it looks like Clarke is out of the woods. I’ll tell him everything.”

“Thanks, Miller. Thanks for everything.”

Miller only shrugs, grinning. “Any time. That’s what friends are for. Get yourself changed and get back to Clarke’s room before she misses you.”

_He knows_. That’s what Bellamy thinks, as he rushes down the hall in search of these spare clothes. Miller knows about Clarke’s last, desperate message. It’s obvious from the look in his eyes, from that open teasing about Bellamy’s implicit relationship with Clarke.

To be fair, Bellamy muses, Miller might have known before that. He wouldn’t be surprised. His relationship with Clarke has been like that for a while now, hasn’t it? A sort of open secret. Obvious but unspoken. Mutual dedication and adoration, but without any kind of public label.

He thinks it’s past time they did something about that. At this rate, she could well get herself killed before he ever gets to tell her in actual words that he’s in love.

……..

Clarke cannot catch a break.

She’s known that for a while, of course. She’s had more than her fair share of bad luck in recent weeks and months and years.

But today she has one very specific problem. She cannot find the right moment to talk about her feelings with Bellamy. She knows he knows about that silly _he knows_ she whispered to Jackson as she was slipping into unconsciousness. She heard him reference it while he was sitting and talking at her bedside, back before she had quite managed to open her eyes. But this whole situation has become a ridiculous charade of things that are known but unsaid - more than their relationship has been like that in recent months, even.

She couldn’t tell him earlier, because she could barely speak. She couldn’t tell him after that, because she was busy throwing up on him. And she can’t tell him now, because her mother is in her bedroom making a fuss of her by the time Bellamy gets back from changing into clean clothes.

“I understand why you didn’t tell me.” Her mother is saying now for, perhaps, the third time. Clarke can understand her defensive hurt, but it’s wearing on her all the same.

“I’m sorry.”

“I just don’t understand why Jackson didn’t let me come here as soon as it was done. I could have taken care of you.”

“She’s got me for that.” Bellamy says, gruff, while he stands stiffly near the door.

Clarke shoots him a grateful look as best she can with her sore face. He smiles softly back at her, but she rather thinks the hands clasped tightly at his hips give away the fact that he’s not feeling purely happy.

Her mother turns to nod at Bellamy, frowning. “Yes. Yes, of course. I didn’t mean -” She blinks, tries again. “I know you two take good care of each other. But you’re not a doctor, Bellamy.”

“He’s pretty good with vomit though.” Clarke offers, trying for a light tone, throat too scratchy to pull it off.

He notices. Of course he does. He’s at her side in an instant, already reaching for the water. “You sound like you could use a drink?” He suggests, already taking the cap off the bottle whether she likes it or not.

She laughs a little. She can’t help it. Everything about that question, from his insistence on taking care of her to his reference to that drink she drank at the dropship, is so totally _Bellamy_ it makes her heart glow warm in her chest.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

This was better when he was shirtless. That’s a silly, selfish thought, isn’t it? But it was lovely to have his bare skin warm against her thin gown. This is still good - she still feels safe and well cared for, as he helps her sit up and drink. Yet she misses the accidental intimacy of that embrace all the same.

She takes a drink, then looks back over at her mother. She hasn’t moved - but her facial expression now looks rather less stern and rather more sympathetic.

“Thanks, Bellamy. Thanks for coming to take care of her. You’re both right - you’re doing a great job.” She says softly.

Clarke blinks, stunned. She’s very rarely heard her mother compliment Bellamy, not in all the months he’s been such an important part of her life. Maybe this is what acceptance looks like, she wonders.

Maybe this is the post-apocalyptic answer to _meeting the parents_. That makes her sad. Her father would have loved to meet Bellamy, if they’d been together on the Ark.

“I want to check a few things, Clarke.” Her mother is saying now. “Jackson has done a great job. But - you’re not his daughter.” She says, a little damp.

Clarke nods. She understands. Her mother will not rest until she has assured herself that all is well - or at least, on the way to being well, with time.

“Do you want to wait outside, Bellamy?” Her mother asks pointedly.

“Can he stay?” Clarke asks at once.

Her mother frowns. “If you’re sure.”

Clarke is sure. She doesn’t know what her mother has in mind, but whatever it is, she wants Bellamy here and present and supportive at her side.

What few inhibitions she had, where he is concerned, flew clean out the window the moment she threw up over his lap.

…….

Abby stays a long time.

Bellamy doesn’t resent that, obviously. Abby is Clarke’s mother, and they love each other, and it’s only right and proper that she should be by her daughter’s side.

But all the same, he’s frustrated. He wants a chance to talk about all these acknowledged but unspoken feelings that are filling the room like a rather dense fog. And he wants, too, a moment to relax. In front of Abby he always feels like he has to be on his best behaviour - because their first meeting was so terrible, because she is a doctor and a former chancellor, and because he loves her daughter. Mostly the last one, if he’s being honest.

Clearly great minds think alike. Eventually, Clarke dares to ask a pointed question.

“Are you going to help Jackson with the nightblood, mum?”

“Yes, I will do. Just as soon as you fall asleep.”

“I’m feeling pretty tired now.” Clarke says. Bellamy wishes that were a lie, and they were destined to get some time for that talk. But honestly, she does look exhausted. She’s been awake a good few hours now, even though she was passed out altogether not so long ago.

Abby takes her cue. “Right. Yes. We’ll leave you to rest.”

Bellamy gives the slightest shake of his head. “I’m staying.”

Abby frowns. “Are you sure?”

He feels his face grow tight, finds himself growing a little taller as he stiffens defensively. “You can’t make me leave. I’m staying right here.”

To his surprise, Abby smiles slightly. “I wasn’t trying to make you leave, Bellamy. I was asking because you had a long drive and then you’ve been taking care of Clarke every second since you arrived. You should get some sleep too.”

“I’ll sleep here.” He tells her, a little mollified, but still feeling stubborn.

“OK.” Abby says, simple, raising her hands without a fight. “Shall I call Miller to help you bring a bed in? Or are you two planning to bunk up together? Just take care with Clarke’s wounds.” She warns sternly.

Bellamy laughs, all the tension draining out of him in a burst of humour. He was expecting that to be difficult. He still has it in mind, somehow, that Abby dislikes him. But she just suggested they might _bunk up together_. It’s the best thing he’s heard all week, her awkward way of asking whether they are in the habit of sharing a bed.

To be fair, it’s not been a great week.

“I’ll take care of her.” He reiterates. “We’ll be fine. Go help Jackson.”

Abby doesn’t object to that. She doesn’t bristle at his quiet order, doesn’t argue with the idea of putting her daughter’s health in his hands.

She simply nods. She reaches out to squeeze Clarke’s hand gently. She pats Bellamy on the shoulder, as if not quite sure how else to tell him he’s in her good books.

And then, with one last, tight smile, she walks out the door.

She leaves silence behind her. Utter silence, marred only by Clarke’s ragged breathing. Bellamy seriously hopes that stage of her sickness improves soon.

“She’s right. You should get some sleep.” Clarke mutters.

Bellamy ignores her. He reaches for her water instead, helps her take another drink. Hydration is important in recovering from illness, right?

Clarke accepts his help. She drinks her drink, leans heavily into his arm. He’s not sure whether that’s because she’s feeling so very weak or whether she wants a hug.

No. Must be the first. No one would want a hug while their skin is as sore as Clarke’s looks right now.

When she has finished drinking, she tries again.

“Bellamy, really. Sleep.”

He admits defeat with a nod. “Yeah. OK. I’ll take a nap. Do you -” He takes a deep breath, tries again. “You know what your mum said about _bunking up_?”

“The other side of the bed is yours if you want it.” She says simply, trying to shuffle herself closer to the edge. Evidently that takes quite a bit of effort.

“Don’t try to move.” He says at once. “It’s fine. That’s enough space. I’m alright.”

“If you’re sure. We - ah - probably won’t be able to touch, with my skin. So - yeah.” She trails off, eyes averted.

“Got it. No spooning.” He takes a risk, tries for a teasing tone. “It’s a shame, but I can be patient.”

Her gaze darts back to him, alert and interested. “Yeah? Maybe another time. I - I think you heard the message I gave Jackson.”

“I did.” He says simply, starting to pull back the covers and get into bed.

“OK. Umm. So - should we -?”

“Leave it, Clarke.” He tells her - soft rather than annoyed. “You look exhausted. And you were right - I know. And you know. So let’s leave it until you’ve got some sleep.”

“But I want to talk about it now.” She protests, trying for a firm tone although her voice is weak and thready.

He sighs, laughs a little against the pillow. “We don’t need to. We both know the truth. So go to sleep now - it’ll wait.”

“I could have said it five times over in the time we’ve been having this conversation.” She protests, petulant.

He laughs for real this time. She’s right. She’s so totally and completely right.

He has to admit, he’s not only trying to put her off because she needs some sleep. It’s largely that, yes, but there are nerves at work, too. What if she’s not going to say what he thinks she is? What if she wants to talk about how firm their friendship is, how he’s her brother in arms, how unromantically, solidly _safe_ he is?

No. He’s being stupid. No one leaves a frantic last message like that because they want to say thanks for being a good bodyguard.

“I love you.” He says simply.

All at once, he can feel himself sag with relief. It feels so good to finally get it out there, for better or for worse. And it feels so right to tell Clarke how precious and appreciated she is. He’s been so worried about her self-worth, of late. It feels perfect to tell her that she’s worth the world to him.

“Not fair. I wanted to say it first.” She protests. “I love you. But I hear you already know that.”

He grins at her. She’s talking a lot for a seriously sick patient, he notes. But that’s Clarke - never one to let hardship shut her down.

“Now can I convince you to go to sleep?” He asks pointedly.

She nods a little. “Yeah. But - can we maybe hold hands?”

“You said no touching.” He reminds her firmly.

“I know. But we managed that earlier. And - we love each other. I think that calls for some hand holding.”

He snorts. That calls for a hell of a lot more than hand holding, in his book. But he supposes the rest of it might have to wait until Clarke can actually sit up on her own, for example.

As it is, tonight, he figures they should enjoy what they can. He reaches a hand out towards her, rests it on the mattress between them. He wants to leave her to close the distance and arrange herself however she is most comfortable.

She reaches out in turn, places her hand over his lightly. She squeezes a little, just once, her eyes already drifting shut.

She’s sound asleep within minutes. That’s no surprise, of course. But Bellamy does not drop off so quickly. He lies there for a little longer, simply watching over her and revelling in the touch of her palm over his knuckles. It feels too good to be true, in some ways. But in other ways it feels just right - like it was simply a matter of time until they would inevitably find themselves here.

He feels himself starting to doze off eventually. It’s been a long day since he started driving from Arkadia. But just before he falls asleep, there’s one thing he wants to say. One thing he doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of saying, in fact - he plans to endlessly repeat it for the foreseeable future.

“I love you.” He whispers to Clarke.

She’s asleep, of course, so she doesn’t whisper back that she loves him too. But that’s OK, Bellamy thinks.

It’s OK, because he knows.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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